Madigan Witnessed A Murder

I have reported the extraordinary way my dog Madigan can talk to me. His ability goes beyond credulity. Just tonight he recounted a story I hesitate to share. You will likely consider me a candidate for the looney bin. Let me start at the beginning.

On a rainy afternoon a small beagle wandering aimlessly on the back road from Cartersville to Harris was picked up by Animal Control. His skin and bones body shook from fear and chill. Safely, if not happily, he was settled in the County Animal Shelter for weeks - for months. He was given food and water and shelter. And on a lucky day he was walked for thirty minutes by a shelter volunteer. No one knew his name. So Wimpy became B-4, the number of his cage.

Fearing he might be found by the wrong person, B-4 carefully eyed each walker. And he had reason to fear. For he posed a danger to someone who posed a danger to him. Three weeks before the fortunate rescue, two weeks before his aimless wandering, B-4 witnessed a murder.

His home, a shabby small cottage seven miles from the 7-11 near where B-4 was picked up, was neither safe nor happy. Frank, the owner, an unemployed mechanic, frequently for no discernible reason beat his wife Carol and children, Buddy and Suzie, ages 5 and 6.  B-4 who witnessed these beatings was not safe from his own torture. Frank kicked him so often and so hard that B-4 avoided his food and water when Frank was around.

Then that night -- it was dark. B-4 had just crept from his hiding place under the porch for food when he heard the screams. He crouched near the door and watched. Carol was on her knees in the corner of the room. Frank struck her with a chair once, again and again. Buddy yelled, "Daddy, don't."

"Shut your fucking mouth, Brat, or you'll get it too."

Suzie rushed to her mother's side. Frank's flying chair crashed against he head. She fell. She was silent as she lay against her sobbing mother. Buddy crept toward his mother and sister. "Back off, Brat, or you'll get it too."

B-4 watched as Frank carried his dead daughter to the garden where he buried her.

Police came and went over the next few days to investigate a missing child, and mother and son who had suffered a beating from an unknown perpetrator. B-4's curiosity, or concern, or devotion led to his need to run. He was caught digging in the garden. The kicks were hard, unrelenting and brutal.

Madigan now, happy and healthy in his adoptive home,  feels compelled to share  his story, although
he does fear if he has endangered his mistress. For the case is still open. And he does not know what she will do with the information.

Super Dog Madigan

Let me begin by telling you this. If anyone looked in my window at night and saw me and Madigan, I am sure Madigan would end up back at the pound and I would be committed to a mental facility.  I will begin at the beginning.

Stashed deeply in my psyche is a dancer. Born no doubt from a traumatic period in my life. My parents-- not my parents, but my mother-- forbade me to go to high school when I finished the 8th grade. I would, she believed, become worldly and forsake her values. My threat to run away elicited my father's intervention. I could go provided I agreed not to wear shorts in gym class and not to participate at all in the Friday folk dancing.

The long jeans in gym was not so so bad. Two other girls in my class wore long jeans because of a skin problem. But the folk dancing-- that was hurtful. I was the only one-- the weird girl-- who had to spend her Fridays in a small closet researching sports and writing reports. By the end of my four years I knew the rules of all major sports and some so rare most people never heard of them.

I managed to get to college. Dances--no dances for me. So self conscious with my lack of skill I avoided dances. Only I knew my insistence that I did not care to dance was a painful lie.

Now as an old woman who even when young put 'learning to dance' on her busket list, I still cannot dance.

But Madigan does not know that. Late night -- several time a week- my Madigan dances with me. He stands on his back legs, lets me hold his from legs and we move slowly and gracefully to music sweet to the ear and easy on old feet. Super Dog? You bet.

My Amazing Superdog, Madigan

My husband of 50+ years died. 50+ years-- two thirds of my existence. So entangled was he with my self concept that it was like losing half of myself. I was alone -- except for our beloved dog, Petronius.  Now my dog. Petro and I underwent a new bonding. His training to stay off the furniture gave way to our sharing the sofa evening after evening. Petro and I missed the master of the house, but we relished each other's companionship.

Alas Petro like his master was victim of cancer. He too died. I was alone!!

So alone!!

Within the week I was visiting the local Humane Society and the County Animal Control Center-- looking for the perfect dog. The perfect dog. The Super Dog.  He/she would have to be older-- well past the energetic puppy stage.  Small was important for I do have a small house. Freedom from shedding hair  was critical-- who wants to be cleaning up dog hair every day, sometimes twice a day?  My new dog had to be yappy to warn me of people and animals.

I found the perfect dog. Medium size, short white hair which falls out from a mere glance at him. He is near the end of puppyhood with energy oozing from every inch of his body and every breath he takes.  But he is yappy. No deer, rabbit, bird, car or person approaches my house unannounced.

 I ask you-- is not one critical characteristic enough?

I look at him and my heart leaps up. Only a Super Dog could rise above all my 'can't accept' characteristics. True? No?

This entry dedicated to Madigan who lies beside my chair as I type.

Madigan Needs A Publicist In The Worst Way

Ever notice how new parents and new grandparents so easily become boring with the endless accounts of the antics of their offspring? That also happens to us pet owners - especially older lonely owners, like me, whose only companion is a pet. That, I fear, I have become or am becoming with my dog, Madigan. Unless a dog has supernatural qualities there is only so much you can say. Chasing rabbits, fetching a ball or barking styles!!  Chasing rabbits one day is like chasing rabbits on any other day. Variation in ball fetching? Really! Different bark styles? You 're (or more accurately am I) serious?

Thus my Madigan's antics have become repetitive and I must admit boring. Unless Madigan develops some Super Dog Quality his appeal must die or move into the realm of Super Dog Imagination. My Madigan is ready for that move. He is in his mind, he is in my mind, and soon he will be be in the mind of you the reader of this account, a dog the likes of whom you have rarely, if ever seen.

All I have to do is invoke the help of all Muses concerned with this, all the talent any god can bestow on me. It will come. I am so sure it will come.  I eagerly await your next visit to THE ADVENTURES OF MADIGAN THE SUPERDOG.

My Dog Madigan Came To The Wedding

Last week my step-granddaughter was married in my back yard. Her name is Megan which seems to make her a natural soul mate to my Madigan. Needless to say Madigan was a guest. It is after all his back yard.

Mindful of Madigan's propensity to chase any form of wild life specimen entering his territory,I kept him securely on a leash or confined to the house. It was partially successful. Partially-- for in the middle of the solemn exchanges of vows he decided to serenade us with his best Beagle baying. Father of the bride hastened to escort him into the house, out of sound and sight.

During the lawn reception Madigan was safely either secured with his leash or inside the house. When inside he was acutely observant of activity at the door. I, by the same token, was equally observant, on the guard of the door which time and time again was opened by toilet visitors. All was going well.

The on-the leash time near the food was another matter. Madigan managed to con one or another of the guests out of a hot dog. Three that I know of-- maybe some I did not see. And why not. He was after all the smallest and cutest guest.

At the end of the festivities guests, bride and groom, left. I feeling little pain after the good food, the wine and beer settled down with a tired dog for a long deserved rest. Alas after Madigan's hotdogs revisited us, I carefully cleaned up the mess and fell onto my sofa. Madigan curled up beside me, calm to rest his head on my lap as I read my novel.

Houdini Is An Understatement.

Outside my house is a big fenced area which in years before my husband's illness was a big vegetable garden. Alas the two years he battled leukemia and the two years since his death it had lain fallow. Except for that first year when I not too successfully tried to grow wild flowers.

This fence,  a sturdy chain link, with a durable double gate seemed the perfect place from my Madigan to romp. To date no other restraint has worked. (See previous blogs)

I left my Madigan in his big playpen. He ran, stopped, sniffed and ran, stopped and sniffed. In doggy heaven with the smells of rabbits and other wild creatures.  I began to mow my lawn which had responded gloriously to the recent five inches of rain. One round of the lawn, back to the garden I found the gate open. Madigan was nowhere to be seen.

Fortunately after so many escapes he has learned his way home. He returned some time later, out of breath, jumping on me as if he had not seen me for the whole day. How can you not love a dog who so obviously loves you the way he loves me? But we are in the midst of a battle.  A plan for keeping my Houdini dog home is back on the drawing board.

My Dog Madigan Talks To Me.

Should I tell you my Madigan talks to me, you most assuredly would conclude I am 'nuts'. So I will not tell you that.

But there is talking and there is talking. If talking means uttering sounds from the voice box which can logically and sensibly be placed in the framework of a human language, then my Madigan does not talk. But if talking is merely communication by sounds, uttered by one, understood another, then he most certainly does talk.

Let me explain! Madigan has at his use windows in four rooms of the house, five if you count the side porch when it is open. From those vantage points he can see: the driveway, empty of any car but mine except for rare occasion : the yard from three positions, filled on any given day with seven or eight deer, multiple squirrels, and rabbits too numerous to tell.

Squirrels elicit a low moaning sound; rabbits a deep throated yelp, deer a gasping breath with choppy 'yips'. The most vociferous vicious utterance comes when a strange car enters the driveway.

As I see it my Madigan talks to me as surely as if he says "Oh look there is a squirrel" or "We have company. I wonder who that can be?"  You have to love a dog like that. You have to be insensitive if you do not believe he is talking to you.